Monday, June 13, 2011

Fire Truck

On Saturday, we had a fair amount of errand running/house un-destroying in preparation for a friendly BBQ. In true man-to-man defense style, I decided to bring Luca along with my chores.

Why did I choose him? First, because he isn’t at the stage where he questions my every move like a certain 4 year old we know. Second, I could guarantee at least two cripplingly cute things would come out of his mouth per hour. How can you not want to hang out with a kid who uses the word “Yippee” without a trace of irony?

Luca and I arrived at King Soopers after pointing out every car (“Car!”) and squirrel (“Kitty!”) along the way. For those of you who don’t know, King Soopers is exactly like Jewel Osco in the Midwest, except they can’t spell “Super.”

At least three times over the course of our shopping I had to stop and allow Luca to have an in depth conversation with an old lady. It would go something like…


“Well, hello, young man. Don’t you have the most beautiful blue eyes.”


“You have such a beautiful smile.”


“Are you shopping with your daddy?”


“Um…well. I must be going.”


While searching in vain for something Diana surely put on the shopping list to torture me, I spotted a rack of Matchbox cars. I could honestly think of no other child in King Soopers who deserved a 99 cent car more than Luca. So I nabbed a fire truck and handed to him.

“Fire truck!”

“That’s right. A fire truck. It’s yours, pal.

I realized I had made a mistake. Luca wanted me to open up the package and let him play with the fire truck. Opening up things at a grocery store goes against everything I believe in. I loath parents who let their kids cram their fists into cereal boxes in the store (Diana does this). Why? It’s stealing. Pure and simple. What happens if you suddenly get called away to an emergency and you can’t pay for your opened package? You go to hell. That’s what happens.

I tried to ignore his increasingly loud pleas of “Fire truck!” I tried to explain in detail that he would get his mitts on the fire truck the moment we left, but I simply didn’t want to break the law and go to hell just for a little piece of metal and plastic.

“FIRE TRUCK!!!!!!” He had hurt little tears in his eyes and I could not prevent him the object of his desire any longer. As I ripped open the package (among what I imagined was the coming horde of security guards) and handed it over to the gleeful cherub, I wondered what I would’ve done if he was screaming “BUTCHER KNIFE” or “VIAL OF COCAINE!”

Luca spent the rest of the day showing everyone his “New fire truck! New fire truck!” Right before our BBQ, he fell down our back stairs because his fire truck stuffed hand wasn’t holding onto the railing. I felt like we were being punished by the King Sooper gods.

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